


Gone

by stillwaters01



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode Related, Family, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Pets, Season 2, human-animal bond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-25
Updated: 2015-04-25
Packaged: 2018-03-25 18:03:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3819814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stillwaters01/pseuds/stillwaters01
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Dude, we've got a hatless Bobby standing out back over a supposed grave neither of us even knew existed.  What part of that doesn't freak you out?"  Set in late Season 2.  Brotherly Sam/Dean, Bobby h/c. </p>
<p>(Originally posted 8/16/11)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gone

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural. Just playing, with love and respect to those who brought these characters to life.
> 
> Written: Original notes and start date: 4/17/11. Full draft: 8/13-8/15/11 
> 
> Notes: This piece is set in late Season 2, after 2x17 (Heart) but before 2x21 (All Hell Breaks Loose). According to the episodes, the boys don’t see Bobby without a hat until 3x01 (The Magnificent Seven) or know about his wife’s possession until 3x10 (Dream a Little Dream of Me) so I stuck with that here. I hope I do the characters and emotions justice. Thank you for reading.

 

 

“Dammit, Sam, it’s like he just freaking….. _evaporated_!” Dean ran a rough hand through his hair as he paced the front of Bobby’s desk, a stressed predator striding through the shadowed bars of late afternoon sun filtering through the old slatted shutters.

 

“Evaporated?” Sam repeated mildly, leaning around the corner from the other room, eyebrows raised in amusement.

 

“Truck’s outside, nothing’s been touched in here…..” Dean continued, before suddenly pausing in his systematic path along the desk, as if just hearing Sam’s slightly mocking tone. “Yeah, _evaporated_ – like you’re so good at doing to _me_ , so shut it, Sam,” Dean glared back.

 

Sam’s face fell, eyes liquefying briefly in memory and apology before setting his jaw against the tide.

 

Dean blew out a breath. “Sorry,” he muttered, glancing up to see Sam’s nearly imperceptible nod of acceptance, and giving one of his own before moving on. “It’s just….Bobby knew we were on our way and….well, he’s not here,” Dean gave a frustrated sigh, nearly groaning at the realization of how childish that sounded, even as another deep-seated not-so-childish emotion flared. “Sam, he’s _always_ here,” Dean nearly pleaded, the raw need and dependence on that rare truth filling his eyes. “If nothing took him, then where did he go?” Dean just barely managed to stop the catch in his voice - the one that lay just under the world-weary bravado, betraying a man battered by loss and the very real threat that there weren’t many left. His mother was gone over twenty years. His father died on the fringes of Dean’s own meeting with mortality. His brother was morphing into some sick reflection of their nightmares, whispers of destiny snatching Sam from him emotionally and sometimes physically with both supernatural and all-too-human hands. So, funny as it may have seemed, Bobby was the most stable support he had right now – and as hard pressed as Dean might be to admit he was freaking out……well, he was freaking out. He _needed_ that stability.

 

“Maybe he just went out back,” Sam offered quietly, gentle and responsive to the underlying emotion yet effortlessly avoiding naming it. A practiced dance.

 

“Yeah, right,” Dean scoffed, scrubbing his hands across his face. At Sam’s steady gaze, he frowned. “Wait, what?” he tried again, brain kicking back in beyond adrenaline-fueled response.

 

Sam nodded toward the room he had just searched.

 

“You mean…..seriously?” Dean’s voice wavered between disbelief, hope, and the unmistakable early strains of irritation.

 

Sam nodded silently.

 

“So….he’s standing out back,” Dean sniffed, tilting his head briefly to the side. “Right.” A beat. “Doing _what_ exactly? Communing with nature? ‘Cause that’s _definitely_ Bobby’s style,” he snorted.

 

“Looked like he was standing at a grave,” Sam said quietly.

 

“A grave?” Dean’s brow furrowed. “Who would…..” he mused before suddenly throwing out a hand. “Wait, go back a minute. ‘Looked like.’ So you saw him before….” Dean grimaced around a swallow of acknowledgement of his earlier display. “Exactly when did you know where Bobby was?” he finally asked, pointedly.

 

“Just before you started talking about evaporation,” Sam admitted.

 

Dean’s half-smile was far from bright. “Great. Thanks for that, Sammy,” he rolled his eyes.

 

“Dean, I couldn’t….” Sam tried to explain, face sinking into the anguished guilt that seemed to be his default setting lately.

 

“Whatever,” Dean shook his head, dismissing the words, but not the underlying need for forgiveness – a need that only seemed to be getting more desperate in Sam, as if he sought atonement for transgressions he hadn’t even committed yet. Ones, as far as Dean was concerned, he wouldn’t _ever_ commit. He watched Sam weighing the silence. Dammit, he _needed_ to get that look off Sam’s face just as much as Sam needed absolution – so Dean offered it, Winchester-style. “Bitch,” he sighed, anger and irritation outweighed by the irrepressible fondness of tradition.

 

Sam’s lips quirked. “Jerk,” he replied dutifully, mimicking Dean’s tone under eyes bright with relief. Apology accepted. “So, you coming to look now or what?” Sam stepped back from the wall and gestured back toward the other room.

 

“Waitin’ on you, smartass,” Dean pronounced, sweeping past Sam toward the particle-saturated light filtering through the rear-yard facing window. He peered attentively at the bowed, distant figure along the scattered tree line. “Dude, what the hell is going on?” Dean’s voice was hushed. “I mean, it seems all we _do_ is lose people, but Bobby’s never said anything about something like this. Only person I can think of that’s died here is Meg, and there’s no way Bobby’s got _her_ buried back there….or that he’d look so….” Dean trailed off, losing the words.

 

“Small?” Sam supplied, eyes softening in worried sympathy at Bobby’s hunched figure. Whether they admitted it or not, Bobby had become something of a larger-than-life font of wisdom and protection – hell, this was the man who had no problem calling the cops with the bloody corpse of a young woman he didn’t even _know_ lying under a satanic-looking ceiling. Not exactly someone they were used to seeing as vulnerable in any sort of way.

 

“Actually, I was gonna say ‘hatless’,” Dean’s joke never reached his eyes. “Man, I swear Bobby actually _sleeps_ in those things – remember the shifts we took with that poltergeist in Bismarck? This whole ‘seeing hair on top of Bobby’s head’ thing is seriously freaking me out more than the fact that we don’t know who’s in that grave.”

 

“Yeah,” Sam shuddered minutely in agreement. “Or who earned that burial,” he added, focusing back on Bobby’s obvious mourning.

 

“I don’t remember Bobby ever mentioning family,” Dean mused aloud, still studying the distant form. “It’s always just been him, you know?” he darted a glance at Sam.

 

“Yeah,” Sam nodded. “But you figure all of us have….or had…. _some_ body. A weakness. I mean, demons know we’re each other’s. Maybe whoever’s back there was Bobby’s.”

 

Dean’s eyes darkened at the truth and resigned experience in Sam’s voice before snapping into immediate focus as Sam suddenly moved next to him. “We going somewhere?” Dean asked as Sam stepped away from the window.

 

“To talk to Bobby,” Sam said simply, handing Dean the book they had come to return.

 

“Whoa, wait a sec,” Dean ignored the book and grabbed Sam’s arm as his brother began turning away. “What if he needs to be alone? You know, not everyone needs the whole sharing and caring bit.”

 

Sam sighed, ignoring the bait and seeing right through Dean as always. “Look, Dean, I can’t just keep standing here watching him like this. If Bobby wants to be alone, I’ll leave….but not until I hear it from him.” He locked on Dean’s eyes and saw a flicker of the wall still entwined with John Winchester’s death. “He did the same for us,” Sam added softly.

 

Dean sighed heavily. “Yeah,” he agreed, taking the book.

 

Sam smiled sadly and headed for the door.

 

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Dean grabbed Sam’s arm again, transferring the book to his left hand and depositing it on a nearby chair. “You’re not goin’ anywhere without me,” he said firmly, reaching back for his gun.

 

Sam’s eyes widened. “Dean, what the….” he sputtered. “It’s just _Bobby_ …..and _talking_. Talking about……” he swallowed, unsure.

 

“About what, Sam? Feelings? Death? What it’s like to lose family?” Dean countered, fixing Sam with a withering look. “Come on, man, I thought we were past all this – yes, I sucked at dealing with Dad’s death…..still do sometimes……”

 

“Wasn’t just you,” Sam interrupted quietly.

 

Dean softened. “Yeah, well, I think we’ve both moved along the grief continuum or whatever pretty damn well since then. And believe me, I’m not looking to revisit any of that crap, but, like you said, Bobby’s been there for us, and it’s only right we do the same for him. I mean, that’s what family does, right?”

 

Sam’s voice was gentle. “Yeah, but Dean, it’s okay – you don’t have to…..” he swallowed. “I got this one.”

 

Dean nearly choked on the memory of Madison, of his own words to a sobbing Sam just before the flinch of a gunshot’s bark. “Yeah, well, if Bobby needs the sharing and caring thing it’s all yours Pollyanna, but until I know that, I’m going with you.”

 

“With the gun. On Bobby,” Sam said drily, eyes resting on the weapon in Dean’s hand.

 

“Dude, we’ve got a hatless Bobby standing out back over a supposed grave neither of us even knew _existed_ instead of meeting us on the porch with a beer like he always does when he knows we’re coming….” Dean paused in his exasperated rush. “Which he _did_ ,” he clarified pointedly. “What part of that _doesn’t_ freak you out?!” he demanded.

 

“Look, Dean, I’ll admit it’s weird, and yeah, I’m worried about him, but…..” Sam trailed off.

 

“But what? We shouldn’t take precautions? Because it’s not like demonic possession never manifests as weird behavior or anything,” Dean pressed.

 

“Wait, you think Bobby’s _possessed_?” Sam exclaimed. “Dean, we’re early. He might have just taken a walk….”

 

Dean didn’t waver.

 

Sam blew out a breath. “You seriously think this is some demon putting on a show....trying to mess with us and lure us out back? Why?!” he pushed, disbelievingly.

 

Dean’s voice went quiet and cold. “Yeah, because demons possessing family to manipulate us into giving them what they want is _so_ far out of the realm of possibility for us.” He captured Sam’s eyes desperately.

 

Sam instantly deflated, ducking Dean’s loaded gaze. He closed his eyes, let out a shaky breath, and pulled in a resolute one before raising his head to meet Dean’s unwavering focus with a tight nod. “Yeah,” he breathed, swallowing roughly as the memory of John’s uncharacteristic praise, and Sam’s own shouts for fratricide, welled behind Dean’s eyes. “You’re right,” he added, face tightening as he tried to steady his voice. “Dean, I’m s-”

 

Dean’s eyes narrowed to a glare. “Dude, one more apology in this conversation and I swear…” he pointed threateningly at Sam.

 

Sam’s face softened fractionally at the true meaning there. “Okay,” he agreed. “We good?” he couldn’t help but seek.

 

“We’re good,” Dean confirmed, before adding, mockingly, “’course, I’m _always_ good. You on the other hand….” He made a face.

 

Sam rolled his eyes with long-suffering practice. “Can we go now?” he sighed.

 

“Yeah,” Dean breathed quickly, moving seamlessly into professional focus, readying his weapon. With an approving nod, he watched Sam do the same, settling in at Dean’s back.

 

Another silent nod, and they were out the door.

 

The yard was covered quickly. Ten feet between reluctant muzzles and the strained anticipation of violent evil……it happened.

 

“You boys are early,” a rough voice cut the silence.

 

Sam shot Dean an ‘I told you so’ look only to be countered with Dean’s ‘bullshit – I’ve seen this movie – one creepy line and he turns around and throws us across the freaking yard’ glare. Sam’s eyes narrowed, freezing halfway to a roll when he recognized that Dean could still be right. He took a step forward despite Dean’s intensified glare in his direction. Dean tightened his grip on his weapon as Sam lowered his almost imperceptibly.

 

“Bobby?” Sam asked, voice struggling between worry, fear, and sheer hope.

 

A heavy sigh.

 

Dean shook his head furiously as Sam thought of taking another half-step forward. He craned his head to the right, around Bobby….or _not_ Bobby’s….still form.

 

And barely bit back a sharp breath at the inhumanly large charred, meaty bone lying atop the cairn of stones. Silently directing Sam’s eyes toward the bone, Dean centered his weapon. “Friend of yours?” he sneered, words tempered with the resignation of yet another impending loss.

 

Sam’s eyes flashed briefly with uncertainty. They had never seen a demon use a host to mourn over another supernatural loss before. But the thought was quickly dismissed as reality’s familiar shadow darkened his vision and he dropped into a mirror of Dean’s anticipatory grief.

 

“Yeah, actually, he _was_ ,” Bobby’s sandpaper voice lost its emptiness as angered surprise colored his words.

 

He whirled around.

 

Sam sucked in a split-second breath, the Latin already on his lips.

 

Dean’s finger tightened at center mass.

 

And Bobby’s eyes managed, impossibly, to both widen in surprise and narrow in disbelieving irritation. “What the….?!” He exclaimed. “Put those damn things away,” he growled at the guns. “What the _hell_ has gotten into you two?!”

 

“What’s gotten into _us_?” Dean returned. “Last I checked, Sam and I weren’t the ones reminiscing over Meaty the supernatural freak’s bones out here!”

 

“What?!” Bobby sputtered. He jerked his head back around, following Dean’s brief dart of the eyes….then back to Sam’s lips and the familiar incantation forming.

 

And rolled his eyes.

 

Dean tensed.

 

Sam swallowed nervously.

 

And Bobby…..

 

“‘Meaty?’” he echoed mildly, fixing Dean with a solid look. “It’s a rawhide bone, ya idjit – a damn chew toy, not the remains of some demonic Godzilla.”

 

Dean’s eyes lightened at the reference.

 

“Besides,” Bobby continued, “if it _was_ , would I be standing here _burying_ the damn thing?”

 

Sam’s face fell. It certainly _sounded_ like Bobby….. “Well, _you_ wouldn’t,” he offered.

 

Bobby nearly winced at the force of the resulting eye roll. “Yeah, I read the incantation and you can save it for someone who’s, you know, actually _possessed_.”

 

Sam frowned. “You _read_ it?” he puzzled. Comprehension dawned. “Bobby, you lip read?”

 

Bobby just shot him a look – the patented ‘you boys are total morons’ look that somehow never came across as anything other than completely supportive. No one else, human or demon, could manage that.

 

Definitely Bobby.

 

Sam and Dean lowered their weapons, hands moving to erase the insult.

 

“Sorry, Bobby,” Sam ducked his head, chagrined.

 

Bobby waved away the apology. “Nah, you boys’re right to be careful…..though I wish I knew how my standing out here translated to demonic possession and….” He smirked slightly, recalling Dean’s words, “reminiscing over Meaty the supernatural freak’s bones.”

 

Sam and Dean cringed simultaneously. Sam looked to Dean, who shot him a ‘please don’t make me say it’ look. Sam acknowledged it with a quiet nod before replying for both of them. “We saw you out here alone by what looked like a grave,” he explained.

 

“And then there was the freaking _bone_ ,” Dean interjected.

 

Bobby sighed. “ _Rawhide._ Like I said, it’s a beef bone - a glorified chew toy.”

 

“Chew toy for _what_?!” Dean exclaimed, gesturing at the size of the bone.

 

“For a dog,” Sam suddenly responded, so softly Dean barely caught it.

 

Dean’s brow furrowed. “Bobby doesn’t have…” he began, trailing off as he watched Sam move forward past Bobby’s body to the far end of the cairn, where a simple wooden cross stood, a single word carved shakily into the knotted pine.

 

Rumsfeld.

 

_Shit._

 

Sure, Bobby didn’t _have_ a dog.

 

He _had_ a dog.

 

Killed by Meg when finding a reckless John Winchester had driven Sam and Dean to Bobby for help.

 

Dean sighed heavily. “Crap, Bobby, I’m sorry. I didn’t know…” he motioned toward the grave.

 

“ _We_ didn’t know,” Sam clarified.

 

Bobby’s face suddenly blossomed with understanding. “So you two saw me from the house standing over what looked like an unmarked grave that neither of you knew anything about….” he shook his head ruefully. “So….demonic possession?” he repeated their thought process drily.

 

Dean shrugged, half-apologetic, half-realistic. “Like Sam said, we didn’t know.”

 

“Yeah, well, instead of gettin’ ready to exorcize and shoot me, you could’ve just _asked_ ,” Bobby pointed out. “You know, thrown a ‘Christo’ in there first.”

 

Sam and Dean looked to each other with a muted ‘why didn’t you think of that?’ look.

 

“Idjits,” Bobby sighed, brief irritation smoothed by growled affection.

 

“Sorry, Bobby,” Sam repeated, face pinched with regret.

 

“It’s all right,” Bobby assured them.

 

“No, it’s not,” Sam insisted gently, eyes lingering over the dog’s name. He wasn’t referring to his and Dean’s mistake.

 

Bobby blew out a heavy breath. “Yeah,” he admitted gruffly.

 

Sam’s gaze flickered to Dean, who began slowly backing up toward the house, recognizing the connection and holding to his earlier promise. “Okay?” he mouthed to Sam, double-checking.

 

Sam nodded and turned back to Bobby, face open and ready. Under all the chick flick insults and jokes about Dean’s allergy to serious discussion, the truth was that they both knew each other’s strengths better than they knew their own and instinctively stepped aside for whoever was better suited to the job. There were times Dean’s manner and experience connected with people, and times Sam’s did. With Bobby, it was usually Dean.

 

But today, even though Dean didn’t know the full reason why, he knew that Bobby needed Sam.

 

And that was enough.

 

Sam stood in silent support, waiting for the older hunter’s lead.

 

Bobby’s eyes never left the grave when he finally spoke. “Got one of those reminders for his shots in the mail today. The vet’s office always sent one of these slimy bastards,” he gestured toward the bone, “with the card.” He chuckled painfully. “He was a stubborn sonuvabitch – in the beginning, he wouldn’t even walk into the building. One day, they tried giving him one of those bones and he let them do whatever they wanted – exam, shots, blood work, you name it. Became sort of a running joke – they started sending one before his visit to soften him up.” His eyes clouded. “So, I had to call today and tell them he was dead – and then come up with a reason why. Not like their system has an option for ‘erased from existence by a demon,” he swallowed.

 

Sam cringed, eyes shifting from Bobby’s dejected posture back to the grave marker. “You know, I always wondered where you came up with ‘Rumsfeld.’ Only thing I could think of was _Donald_ Rumsfeld, which always seemed kind of weird for a Rottweiler.”

 

Bobby huffed a laugh. “Nah, you got it right,” he confirmed. His eyes darkened. “I found him locked in the trunk of an old Ford a buddy of mine towed over for scrap. Some bastard probably shut him in there hoping either the heat’d kill him or he’d starve. Anyway, I’m checking the car out when I pop the trunk and find this six month or so old dog layin’ half-dead on his side….and the damn thing starts tryin’ to wag his stump of a tail at me. I go to get my buddy on the phone and this dick of a customer comes tearing in, screaming about how he was gonna kill me for rippin’ him off – apparently thought my fixin’ a totaled Volvo, even after I _told_ him to scrap it ‘cause it wasn’t worth it, shoulda been free. Moron pulls a knife on me and before I could grab the shotgun, this half-dead dog that doesn’t know me from Adam leaps out of the trunk, latches onto this bastard’s arm like one of those police dogs, and takes him down. By the time the sheriff got here, he was sittin’ next to me, leanin’ against my leg ‘cause he could hardly stay upright, but still growlin’ anytime that guy so much as _thought_ of movin’. Well, at that point, I figured we were stuck with each other, so I brought him to a vet to get checked out. They asked what I was gonna call him, and I said ‘Rumsfeld.’” Bobby shrugged. “First thing that came to mind.”

 

“A secretary of defense was the first thing that came to mind?” Sam chuckled.

 

Bobby shrugged again. “I kept thinking of how he took that guy down – he was a ruthless little bastard. Same words Nixon used to describe Rumsfeld. And since I found him in a Ford and Rumsfeld served under Ford too….”

 

“‘Rumsfeld.’” Sam supplied.

 

Bobby nodded. “I don’t know - it just _fit_ somehow.”

 

“Pretty deep, Bobby,” Sam offered.

 

“Yeah,” Bobby snorted, looking up briefly before his eyes returned to the cross.

 

Sam let the silence settle for a few moments. He didn’t want to push, but Bobby had been receptive so far, so he continued. “He always seemed pretty smart for a guard dog – like he was seriously thinking when he watched me and Dean pull in.”

 

Bobby smiled wistfully. “Yeah, he _was_ pretty smart. I’d get back from a hunt and he’d just _look_ at me – I swear, like he was readin’ my mind and figurin’ out exactly what he should do. You know how animals usually freak out around hunters that’ve just come off a job, like there’s this supernatural smell or aura or something? Rumsfeld never did that. He’d watch me, then either park his big ass in my lap, lay down nearby, or grab one of his toys and start rolling around like he lost his damn mind. But whichever one he did was _exactly_ what I needed.”  

 

Sam swallowed back sudden tears at his own memories of southwestern independence and seventy-five pounds of intuitive canine companionship.

 

Bobby suddenly laughed. “’Course he could also be a total moron,” he shook his head with the memory. “Stuck his head in a beehive once, got stung, then went and did it again. By the time I got him to the vet, he couldn’t even see, his face was so damn swollen.”

 

“Not his finest moment,” Sam grinned.

 

“Hardly,” Bobby snorted. His face relaxed in positive reminiscence. “He could be a royal pain in the ass sometimes – head big as a rock and just as stubborn. Chewed the hell out of some of my books the first month – left the real important ones alone, but apparently had somethin’ against Socrates and Plato.”

 

Sam grinned. “Can’t say I blame him. I had to read ‘The Republic’ for a philosophy class at Stanford,” he grimaced.

 

“Pretentious load of ass-kissing, isn’t it?” Bobby rolled his eyes.

 

Sam laughed in agreement.

 

Bobby’s gaze drifted again. “He was always chasing stuff - balls, squirrels, rolling hubcaps. He’d knock ‘em down with one paw, pick it up like a Frisbee, and come trotting over and drop it at my feet, all proud of himself. In the winter, I’d put a fire on and he’d sprawl out on his back in front of it, hoggin’ all the heat. And, somehow, even after the bastards that locked him in that trunk, he couldn’t get enough of people. Immediately knew which ones were dangerous, but everyone else? He’d run up to those customers like they were long-lost friends – they’d be pettin’ him and gettin’ licked to death while talkin’ to me about what they needed done. Some even started bringin’ him treats.” His eyes clouded. “But then I got one guy who was afraid of dogs – saw this big doofus runnin’ at him and freaked out. Couldn’t really blame him, I guess. I put Rumsfeld inside, apologized, got the guy his car, and figured I wouldn’t see him again. Turns out, guy calls me a week later – he was so happy with the car that he wanted to bring me regular work – he had some sort of delivery business and a whole fleet of trucks….but he said he couldn’t do it if Rumsfeld was out. Normally I’d have told him to go somewhere else, but with all the demons and omens lately there’ve been a lot more jobs and those supplies ain’t free. I was short on cash - I _needed_ that kind of business. So, I made a deal with him – I wanted Rumsfeld outside because he’d always head off anyone stupid enough to try something. So I told the guy that I’d chain him up near the house on days he came by and he agreed.” Bobby swallowed thickly. “That’s why he was chained up that day. Guy was gonna drop a truck off right after you boys came by.” He paused. “And I _know_ it wouldn’t have made a damn bit of difference, but I can’t help thinking, if he had been loose when she showed up….” He cleared his throat roughly, ducking his head to hide well-worn guilt.

 

Sam took a steadying breath, intimate with that feeling, as his own guilt at bringing Meg to Bobby’s doorstep surged. “Bobby….” he began.

 

But Bobby’s head jerked up, shining eyes narrowed into a clear, wordless demand. One Sam had seen for years on Dean’s face when the guilt refused to acknowledge such perceived platitudes as ‘it’s not your fault’, ‘there’s nothing you could have done.’ A single, firm, unspoken word:

 

Don’t.

 

Sam backed down in respectful silence as Bobby struggled for control.

 

“I miss him,” Bobby finally said simply - everything, an entire life, in those three words. “But you know what really pisses me off?”

 

Sam watched him in wordless response as Bobby’s eyes drifted down from the cross to the stones and he continued.

 

“That dog was the _one_ thing in my life that wasn’t tied to the job. And a demon kills him.” He swallowed hard, shifting on his feet. “So now his life, all those memories…..it’s all… _tainted_. By the same evil sonsuvbitches he helped me forget.” He paused. “Bitch didn’t even leave me a body. Ended up buryin’ some of his toys and tags instead. I had to melt the chain down the next day ‘cause I couldn’t even _look_ at it.” He turned slowly, red-rimmed, hauntingly honest eyes meeting Sam’s. “It was just…well, you boys……you and Dean’ve always had each other. I never had family like that. Until Rumsfeld.” He looked down, a flush of embarrassment stark against the pain. “And I know it sounds ridiculous, but he became family. I knew I had _him_.”

 

The tremor Bobby’s voice was desperately trying to hide stole the breath from Sam’s chest. He had never known, never _considered_ , this side of Bobby – that Rumsfeld had been more than just a junkyard guard dog. Never thought a few minutes of silent presence and encouraged memories would bring something like this to light and break his heart.

 

“Bobby,” Sam said quietly, “you know you have us too, right?” his eyes shifted briefly back to where Dean was leaning against the Impala.

 

Bobby swallowed roughly. “Yeah,” he breathed softly, the subsequent “thanks” even softer.

 

They stood in companionable silence for a few moments before Bobby, in another familiar move, visibly shook himself out of guilt-laden memories and desperate emotion. “So,” he cleared his throat, shifting his body away from the grave, “tell me about this job of yours. The book help?”

 

But his eyes met Sam’s with a staggering, sincere gratitude. A silent ‘thanks for listening. And caring enough to ask.’ And Sam responded just as silently – ‘anytime – that’s what family’s for.’

 

Sam saw something shift in Bobby – a sort of peace and newfound resolution, as if he hadn’t truly realized that he was just as much family to Sam and Dean and they were to him.

 

Sam swallowed back fresh guilt at _that_ new revelation, and joined Bobby’s push forward. “Bobby, that book was _amazing_. Where did you even _find_ it?” He began filling Bobby in on the details as, in the distance, Dean instinctively pushed away from the Impala to meet them.

 

***

 

As they left Bobby’s that evening, Sam got on the laptop and asked Dean to stop by a nearby religious supply store.

 

“We need something?” Dean asked, wondering if he had missed something in their last trunk inventory.

 

“Yeah,” Sam said quietly.

 

Their eyes met. Both knew the trunk was fully stocked.

 

But Dean started driving anyway.

 

And only asked for directions.

 

***

 

A week later, Sam was on the phone with Bobby about a particularly stubborn poltergeist in rural Oklahoma. “Thanks Bobby,” he said as he went to hang up, armed with a promising new plan.

 

“Yeah, you too,” Bobby replied.

 

Not his customary ‘no problem’, ‘yeah’, or ‘watch your asses and keep me posted.’

 

Sam knew Bobby would’ve heard the Impala returning that night.

 

So if the underlying gratitude in that roundabout response had anything to do with the St. Francis of Assisi medal that appeared on Rumsfeld’s grave marker the morning after their conversation….

 

Neither said a word.

 

They didn’t have to.

 

Because that’s what family was for.

**Author's Note:**

> \- This story idea came to me before I wrote “Bones”, and it took writing that other tale to inspire me to finish this one. I’m sure many others have explored Rumsfeld’s role in Bobby’s life better than I, but this story came to my mind so clearly that I had to give it a voice. Rumsfeld’s back story came about after I explored his name and found that quote from Nixon. For all his sarcasm and gruffness, I’ve always seen Bobby as a sensitive soul, and at this point in the series, I could imagine that, as a mentor and resource person for both the Winchesters and other hunters, that while he might have been part of the greater hunting family in general, and that he considered Sam and Dean as close family, he probably didn’t feel like he had anyone to reliably watch his back. Hunter loyalties could change quickly, and Sam and Dean don’t really start referring to Bobby as a father figure, and Bobby doesn’t really start referring to them as his sons, until Season 3 and beyond. I could see Bobby developing that trust with Rumsfeld, and being quietly devastated when his one, sure support was killed. In the light of 5x16 and the story of Sam’s dog, I felt that, even while no one else knew about Bones yet, that Sam would have the greater connection here with Bobby, and it was nice to explore their relationship, since it’s usually Dean who is the most connected to him in a father/son sense. For those unfamiliar with Catholic saints, St. Francis of Assisi is the patron saint and protector of animals. For an idea of the rawhide/beef bone referenced in this story, Google “Dentley’s Meaty Mammoth Bone.” Thank you for reading. I hope I did the characters and emotions justice.


End file.
